Take Me To The River

A Brief Intermission

...but there will be hells to pay

your whispered moan
nowhere to be found
among scatter-dishes in a stainless sink

your fragile desires
waiting to be found
in shatter-pieces on a shower floor

for thirty-five years,
you
without
me

and
a sense of something missing,
of missing something

spoken, unspoken

fragments blown about, blown abroad
by the wind between two latitudes

like,
"... pray for the dead in purgatory..."

heaven
in the consumation, conjugation
of wounded bird words
fly, flew, have flown
to the confluence
of Wing-Leaf Rivers

knee-deep
in swollen currents,
you
performing ablutions,
you
flushing the fire
for now
from my skin

...though there will be hells to pay